


Down All Your Dark Roads

by DyslexicSquirrel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Cas is a Russian mob boss, Dean is a cop, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 07:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21175559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DyslexicSquirrel/pseuds/DyslexicSquirrel
Summary: Dean is injured and on the run. The only person he has to turn to is Castiel, but it might be a huge mistake.





	Down All Your Dark Roads

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god, my first SPN fic! Heeeeey. :D 
> 
> This is based on [this](https://ao3commentoftheday.tumblr.com/post/188534693538/samwellwinchesterthebrave-crewdlydrawn) promt on Tumblr and was encouraged by people in the Writer of Destiel discord.
> 
> Also, I should point out that I was picturing S8 brainwashed Cas when I was writing this 😂

On the list of Dean Winchester’s Bad Ideas, this one ranked up there with the time he tried to wear leather pants and even agreeing to this last case seeing as he was currently trying to outrun a pack of gun toting loonies who’d been holding him captive, doing everything he could not to pass out from blood loss, thanks to a gunshot wound in his leg and the multiple lacerations, the stab wound in his side, and whatever the hell was swimming through his system. 

The sound of a horn blaring made his eyes snap open and, yup, not doing so great at the not passing out. Dean jerked the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding the oncoming semi. He blinked a few times, shook his head like a dog after a bath, and slapped his own face for good measure. “Don’t go blacking out, you son of a bitch,” he growled to himself, panting through the pain. “I will kick your ass if you give up on me now.” 

Maybe not a great sign that he was talking to himself, but who else was going to tell him to get his shit together? Not Sammy, his always logical lawyer brother, because he was off with Jessica somewhere, being blissful, and besides, he’d probably tell Dean to “Get to a hospital, what is wrong with you, you idiot?” Even if Dean wasn’t undercover, still hoping to not blow this op to hell—more than it already was—he couldn’t risk that. There was a chance to salvage this, but it meant he couldn’t go to a hospital, because that’s not what Kris Warren would do and, for all intents and purposes, he that’s who he was until this clusterfuck was over. He was on his own and running low on options. The members from the gang he was infiltrating had driven out of state for this buy. No way could he make it back to the compound. Only reason he was even considering doing what he was about to do. 

Why’d he think going cowboy was a good idea, anyway? Trying to save the low lives he had been living with for the last year. Warren was supposed to be a piece of shit who looked out for himself, but when the bullets started flying, Dean went on autopilot. Everyone except for him and a prospect named Ansem had died in that field anyway. Dean’s jaw clenched thinking about it, making him wince. His face was bruised to shit by the beating the supposed buyers had given him. The buyers who double crossed them. There was no honesty among criminals, it seemed. Ansem tried to run at the warehouse and got a bullet to the head for the trouble. They needed someone alive to lead them to the gang’s weapons cache and turns out they only needed one of them, so they hadn’t counted it as a loss. Ansem didn’t know Jack shit anyway. 

He’d only gotten away himself by sheer dumb luck. They left him alone, thought the drugs in his system and the damage to his body from the torture was enough to make him harmless. Except Dean had been picking handcuffs since he was a kid—‘practice’ his dad had called it—and they hadn’t taken his rings, just his weapons, which meant they missed the lock pick inside it. But it had taken days for an opportunity to present itself when he was awake enough to concentrate. Getting to a car had been the difficult part, the trail of blood he had been leaking like a giant red sign pointing to where he was. Luckily, his captor’s has been morons. Dean only encountered one of them on the way out, bashed the guy good with his makeshift weapon—the hammer they used to break a couple fingers on his left hand, as a matter of fact—before stealing his gun. 

His eyes kept flicking to the rear view, checking for a tail, but so far his luck held. When Dean saw the turn off to the road leading to the cabin, he breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Cabin’ was a bit of a misnomer, he thought, as it came into view. Two stories, with wide expanses of windows overlooking a cliff. It was more like a mini-mansion. Then again, it’s owner didn’t know how to do subtle. 

He hadn’t been here in years, three to be exact, but it was exactly the same. He justified being here by telling himself it was the closest place he could lie low. It had absolutely nothing to do with the cabin’s enigmatic owner, or the fact that some part of Dean wanted to see him even though it was the last thing he should want. There was the danger of being turned away, of course, but then the asshole would just have to deal with his new Dean sized lawn ornament because this was as far as he was going. 

Dean put the car in park, turned the engine off, but didn’t bother taking the keys from the ignition or the gun in the passenger seat. Just pushed open the door, which felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and stood with a pitiful groan. Clutching his side, Dean half hobbled, half shuffled to the front door. 

This place was wired up like Fort Knox, the cameras on the property would have already picked Dean up as soon as he turned down the drive, and Dean knew he’d seen the car, was probably standing on the other side of the door with a gun aimed his way. There was no security of the human variety, assuming his desire for privacy when here hadn’t changed. Dean made it up the porch steps, but he was shaking, shivering, his non-broken hand clutching the door frame. He paused before raising a foot to kick it.

Sure enough, when it opened the first thing he saw was a gun, but it was hanging by the other man’s side. Dean lifted his head slowly and, ah hell, the sight of Castiel hit him like a freight train. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, same aggravatingly blank expression. The only time he’d ever seen it change was when—

Nope. Not going there. Not now. Maybe later when he wasn’t half dead. 

Castiel tilted his head at Dean, eyes roving over his hunched frame before meeting his eyes. Dean saw nothing beyond mild curiosity. Annoyance at that managed to work past his exhaustion and pain. He managed a smirk. “Hey, remember me? I got you arrested three years ago.” 

Castiel blinked at him, impassive. “Detective Winchester. I have to admit you’re the last person I expected to darken my door.” 

He pursed his lips, the first sign of emotion, and holstered his weapon. “You’ve looked better.” 

“I bet you say that to all the boys.” His smile fell, along with his eyes, as he swayed. His hand tightened around the jamb and he swallowed. Dean had to force his eyes open, looked up at Castiel. Voice unsteady, the events of the last few days catching up with him, Dean admitted, “Didn’t know where else to go.” 

His legs buckled, through holding him up, and he was surprised to feel Castiel’s arms close around him before his brain shut off. 

* * *

He woke up naked. In a bed that felt like a cloud, under a fluffy down comforter, but still naked. His head throbbed, his body felt like one giant ache, but he wasn’t dead, so there was that. Shifting made him groan. Someone must have stitched him up, he could feel them pull when he cracked his lids and pushed himself up against the headboard. 

“You shouldn’t be moving yet.” The voice was achingly familiar, just as deep and gravely as he remembered. Crossing his splinted hand across his abdomen, Dean rolled his head around to look at Castiel.  _ Cas _ . The old nickname floated up from someplace Dean had shoved into the depth of his mind, like a box full of memories you didn’t want but couldn’t throw away, stuffed on the top shelf of a closet. 

“Yeah, well, when have I ever done anything I was supposed to?” He knew the words were wrong as soon as he said them, didn’t need to see the anger flash in Cas’s eyes. Dean refused to look away, because he’d chosen this. He was the one who broke them. 

He could have walked away, lied, said he hadn’t uncovered anything illegal. Hell, he could have not fallen into Cas’s bed, gotten involved, making it a betrayal in the first place when Dean turned over the files. The fact that Cas wasn’t in prison, without having thrown Dean under the bus for their relationship was probably due to something illegal. Dean wouldn’t be surprised to know Cas had a judge or two in his pocket. And if he were honest? He didn’t  _ want _ to know. He’d been glad when the news came down that Castiel Novak, alleged head of the midwestern branch of the Russian Bratva, had walked. A year and a half of undercover work down the drain and he had been  _ happy _ . 

He should feel ashamed, but he didn’t. 

Cas set the book he’d been reading down on the table beside the armchair where he sat and stood, poured himself a drink from the bottles set up on top of the dresser. So many questions crowded his mouth: Did it mean as much to you as it did to me? Do you still think about me when you close your eyes? Have you been with anyone else? That last one wasn’t fair. Cas had been ready to commit—talking about showing him some hunting retreat in Russia, how beautiful the snow was, how he wanted to see Dean draped in furs and nothing else, laid out across the big four poster bed. 

But he hadn’t known who Dean really was yet, and it would have been the end of his career. Would have shit on everything his family had stood for, for generations. He had been tempted, though. Waking up beside Cas that last day, his face relaxed in sleep, one arm stretched out toward him. 

But in the end, he’d walked away. Turned in the information he’d gathered to his superiors. A few days later, CPD and a SWAT team stormed Castiel’s Chicago residence, warrant in hand, and took him into custody. Dean hadn’t seen him again until he came to court to testify, anticipating questions about when they started fucking—six month into the assignment, in case anyone was wondering, because he’d told himself it was an easy way to gain Cas’s trust—that never came. Dean had shot Cas a surreptitious look, brows pulled low in confusion, but Cas gave nothing away. His eyes were empty, devoid of the warmth that had started creeping into them when he looked at Dean. 

Cas had looked at him like he was a stranger. It made him want to punch something. But he’d gotten through his testimony, cause he was goddamned professional, left the courthouse with his head held high, and gone home to get drunk. 

He didn’t ask any of those questions though. What he settled on was, “Why did you help me?” 

Drink in hand, the fine crystal of the glass catching the waning light from the setting sun through the window, Cas turned back toward him, one hand in the pocket of his gray pants. He shrugged, as if it were nothing, and Dean gritted his teeth, swallowed the urge to yell. That would not be wise. Cas was still armed and Dean was still naked, weaponless, and not up to a fight. 

Cas sat. Before taking a sip of the amber liquid in the tumbler dangling from his fingers, he said, “Didn’t much feel like having to dispose of your corpse, to be honest.” 

Hmm, well, that hurt, sent a jab of pain through his chest. He took a deep breath, striving for calm. “We both know you have people for that.” 

Cas’s eyes went dark, intense, pinning Dean to the mattress. If he could have moved that gaze would have held him as fast as cuffs. “Maybe I didn’t want you to die,” he murmured, so soft Dean almost couldn’t make out the words and would have thought he wasn’t meant to except that Cas hadn’t looked away. Then he blinked and it was over, Cas’s eyes straying to the window.

Dean’s head was still fuzzy, everything a bit hazy at the edges. He let his head drop back against the headboard. What the fuck had been in the needles they’d jabbed into his arm? Could have been the blood loss, too. Or the fact he hadn’t eaten in… however the hell long. He’d had plenty of water though. If you could consider the stuff he had choked down when they poured it over his face, and hadn’t vomited back up, as staying hydrated. 

He heard a sigh, the sound bringing him back to the present and he realized his eyes had drifted shut. Cas stood, tumbler in hand, and walked over to stand next to the bed. “You should rest. Your body is still working through what you were drugged with.”

“I don’t even know what they gave me.” He slid down until he was lying flat on his back, head cradled by a pillow that felt like heaven. He stared up at Cas through half-lidded eyes. 

“Ketamine, maybe.Or some other sedative. Might have been laced with an opiate,” Cas offered, reaching out with his free hand to pull back the comforter. 

“Hey.” The protest was half hearted at best and Cas raised a brow before dropping his eyes to the stitches on his thigh, low on his abdomen. His lips pursed. 

“You almost pulled your stitches out.” 

“Maybe you did a shitty job stitching me up,” Dean shot back.” 

Cas scowled. “You’re bleeding on my sheets.” 

“Send me the dry cleaning bill.” Keeping his eyes open was hard, but he was naked and Cas was looking at his body, his injuries yeah, but there had to be something wrong with him because feeling the weight of Cas’s gaze on him, even like this, was the best thing he’d felt in longer than he wanted to admit. 

Cas rolled his eyes, left his glass on the side table, and walked into the bedroom. When he came back he had a first aid kit. Once he was done cleaning and rebandaging his stitches (neat, straight lines, damn Cas’s perfectionist ass), he twitched the sheets back over Dean. “Sleep.” 

“Don't tell me what to do.” 

“You’re very mouthy for someone dependent on my good will,” Cas said before lifting his glass to his lips and taking a sip. 

“It’s one of my many talents,” Dean mumbled, eyes slowly blinking. 

“You’re in no condition to argue. We can,” Cas paused, looked away for a moment before continuing, “...pick this up again tomorrow if you want.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” He was already halfway to sleep, heard Cas’s footsteps, muffled by the plush carpet. Letting out a deep sigh, Dean said, “Cas?” 

Cas didn’t say anything, but his footsteps paused. “Thanks.” 

* * *

He knew he was dreaming. Everything was too… soft. Cas’s lips, his hands, the brush of his skin against Dean’s. That and he wasn’t bruised and beaten. He knew it was a dream and he didn’t care. 

It had been too long. He missed Cas, had missed him since the moment he walked away. It was one of many things he ignored because thinking about it wouldn’t change anything: It was still a hopeless situation. 

If nothing else had given away that he was in dreamland, how gentle Cas was being would have tipped him off. They didn’t do gentle; they fucked hard and fast, fighting for control until Cas made Dean submit. Or it was drawn out, teasing, building Dean up then backing off, repeatedly, until he wanted to scream, when Cas was feeling particularly sadistic. 

But Dream Cas was stroking Dean’s hair, kissing down his jawline, nipping gently at his neck. It was new, different, but also heady and he sunk further into the sensations, rolling his hips against Cas’s thigh, cock hard, seeking friction. His fingers were buried in Cas’s hair, reveling in the feel of it. Dean needed something to hold onto or he would float away, insubstantial. 

“Cas,” he plead.  _ Don’t stop. You can go back to hating me later. Please.  _

Cas licked a path up his neck, whispered in his ear. “What do you want, Dean.” 

“Touch me.” 

“I am.” A hand ghosted up Dean’s side, a thumb brushed his nipple. 

“More,” he demanded. 

“Greedy.” It was a light reprimand, but Dean knew Cas was smiling without opening his eyes. He had a fear that if he looked, he’d wake up, so he kept them closed, arching his back when Cas’s tongue swirled over one of his nipples, teeth following not far behind. The process was repeated on the other and Dean’s fingers tightening in Cas’s hair. Cas pulled his hands free, pressing Dean’s palms to the bed, and without any warning the wet heat of his mouth closed around Dean’s dick. 

“Cas, fuck,” he groaned, fisting the sheets. The other man hummed, adding another layer of sensation. Cas’s mouth was a revelation, pure sin. His head bobbed, tongue laved the length of his cock, a hint of teeth against the head. When Cas’s tongue dipped into the slit, lips closing around the head and sucking, his hips bucked. 

Cas pulled away. Dean almost whined. He tutted, pushing Dean’s hips down into the bed. “Manners, Dean.” 

“You bastard,” he panted. There was no heat behind the words and Cas went back to playing with him. Dean had always been his favorite toy. 

A hint of realness crept in, Cas’s nails digging into the skin of his hips. Dean hissed, but didn’t complain. The edge of pain just made it better. When Cas took him to the back of his throat and swallowed at the same time he pressed a spit slick finger to Dean’s hole, not entering—circling, pressing gently, tapping—it was game over. Dean choked off a moan, and came down Cas’s throat. 

He woke up long enough to realize he was alone, come cooling on his stomach, and pressed his face into the pillow. It smelled like Cas. “You’re bleeding on my sheets,” he’d said earlier. Dean had been too out of it to realize this was Cas’s bedroom. Now it was all he could think about. 

  
  


* * *

“What the fuck?” He shouted, incensed. He’d been yelling for the last hour. Cas had to be ignoring him; the place was big, but not  _ that _ big. Dean was being loud enough to wake the dead. 

“Calm down, Dean,” Cas said, finally walking through the door, taking his sweet ol’ time. Dean glared at him. Cas was unphased by the daggers shooting his way out of Dean’s eyes. He hefted a tray. “Thought you’d be hungry.” 

“Screw the food,” he growled. “What the fuck?” He repeated for what felt like the millionth time, gesturing pointedly at his wrist. 

Cas’s eyes flicked to his, then away, busying himself with setting the tray on the table beside the bed. 

“Cas, for fuck’s sake,” he cried, frustrated beyond words. “Look at me, goddamn it. What’s with the hardware?” 

The chains of the handcuffs around his hand, the one without the splint at least, rattled around the room accusingly. Cas straightened and crossed his arms across his chest. “This way you stay put.”

“I’m not a fucking dog, Cas. You can’t just tell me to stay or sit. If I want to get out of bed, I will.” He wasn’t a hundred percent sure he  _ could _ , but hell if he would tell Cas that. 

“You can get out of bed, Dean.” 

“How magnanimous of you.” One of Cas’s brows popped up. “What? I know big words. Fuck you.” 

Cas shook his head. Sighed. “You can get out of bed,” he said again, adding, “You simply won’t be leaving the house.” 

“Excuse me?” 

Cas half turned and lifted the cover off the tray. Dean looked at it despite himself. He was starving. Chicken and rice, some vegetables. His lip curled. He’d kill for a burger right about now. 

“You heard me.” 

“Are you high?” He exploded. “You can’t kidnap me, Cas.” 

Cas sat on the edge of the bed, their hips brushing, and Dean looked at him in suspicion. Then Cas planted his hand on the mattress by Dean’s other hip, leaning over him, caging. Cas could be one scary motherfucker when he wanted to be. He locked eyes with Dean. His voice was pitched low when he said, “It’s only kidnapping if you don’t want to be here.” 

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but the words died in his throat, and he closed his mouth again. He blinked, jaw clenched. Cas had him there, goddamn it. He  _ did  _ want to be here, but not like this. He moved his wrist, setting the chain jangling. Cas looked at him steadily. They weren’t touching except for the slight contact of their hips, but even that felt like too much. Cas clouded his thinking. “Cas,” he said, helplessly. 

Cash gripped his chin. “I’m not letting you go now that I have you. Not again.” 

Coming here definitely held the top spot on the list of Dean Winchester’s Bad Ideas. Only question was, did he really care? 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry not sorry for the kind of ambiguous ending? XD


End file.
